


Honeypot

by inb4invert



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha Original Percival Graves, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bonding, Bottom Credence Barebone, Crime, Detective Percival Graves, Dom/sub, Knotting, M/M, Omega Credence Barebone, Omegaverse, Past Abuse, Pining, Protective Original Percival Graves, Top Original Percival Graves, a/b/o dynamics, late 1970s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-01-15 15:04:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12323412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inb4invert/pseuds/inb4invert
Summary: It wasn't about Grindelwald. It wasn't even really about Graves and his wounded alpha cop pride, either. What Piquery and Detective Graves had both known, the unspoken thing that swirled around like a curl of ink suspended in the depths of their mutual stare-down, was that this was about the omega. The one Graves knew would be haunting his dreams tonight, languishing and panting all unseen in the sweat-dampened sheets of his empty bed.





	1. Chapter 1

After the hostage taking, Detective Graves had been given a week's leave with full pay (against his loudly voiced better wishes, of course). He’d wanted to stay--needed it, even--unprepared to no longer be a part of things now that he was untied and Grindelwald was the one in cuffs. Now that captor had become quarry once again, and all the world turned to right. _Almost_ right. 

In the aftermath of it all--the station humming around them with all the agitation of a beehive recently kicked--Piquery had sized him up with the knowing scrutiny only a fellow alpha could. Listened in that infuriatingly calm way of hers as he tried to make his arguments, knowing the whole time it was no good. Helpless had been an unflattering look on him, her eyes had seemed to say, but desperate insistence was one shade too far beyond her patience and there was too much to be done. When she'd told him, once his last-ditch-effort little speech had spun out: “Take the week, Detective. Give the kinks a few days to settle. We can handle things down here,” he'd _known_.

It wasn't about Grindelwald. It wasn't even really about Graves and his wounded alpha cop pride, either. What Piquery and Detective Graves had both known, the unspoken thing that swirled around like a curl of ink suspended in the depths of their mutual stare-down, was that this was about the omega. The one Graves knew would be haunting his dreams tonight, languishing and panting all unseen in the sweat-dampened sheets of his empty bed. 

Not _just_ an omega. Not like any boy he'd ever seen, but a goddamn force of nature, built and primed by millenia’s worth of evolution to drive Graves nearly out of his skull with want. He'd known that Gellert Grindelwald was good, cunning in a way that almost garnered a backwards sort of grudging respect--enough to make the detective hungry over the chance to be the one who finally brought him down. Yeah, Grindelwald had always been good, but this latest move had elevated him several ranks towards something closer to genius. 

Graves still didn't even know where Grindelwald had found the omega ( _Credence_ , he'd said his name was, whispering the hushed syllables across the warehouse to him on the tail end of a breathy moan), the sweet honeypot that had turned what should have been a routine stakeout into the absolute shitshow Graves wasn't entirely sure his career was going to survive. 

Never in all his years as a cop had Graves been compromised like this by his alpha status. One of the first lessons of his training, and the one that had saved his ass countless times since, was how to keep his baser instincts under control. Sure, there'd been times, mostly early on, when he'd indulged himself with little repercussion. Traffic citations that ended in fogged windows and creaking shocks in a dim parking lot or two. Back when he was younger and a damn sight cockier, a horny green kid prowling the streets in a tight set of blues. But he'd always, always kept himself in check. Until now. 

Climbing into the front seat of his car, Graves runs his shaking hands through his hair, musing on how lucky he is to be heading home simply on leave rather than a full-out suspension. His only saving grace being that Piquery herself is alpha enough to understand, even if alpha enough to judge, as well. He thinks back to her parting words as he'd left her office, trying hard not to look so much like a dog with its tail between its legs as he’d felt. “Graves,” she'd intoned, levelling him with a look that nearly buckled under the weight of its meaning. “The omega is safe under lock and key, so that's not something you're going to have to worry about.” The implication all too clear: don't do anything stupid, at least nothing more stupid than he'd already gone and done. 

When the swat team had come (one of Grindelwald’s goons already laid out dead by a sniper's shot, warehouse dust kicked out all around him like some macabre snow angel), it had taken five of them to hold Graves down when he realised they intended to separate him from the boy. “He's mine!” he'd roared, a sound of pure animal outrage, knuckles bleeding from the first helmeted face he'd managed to clip in the fray--the terrified omega's eyes liquid and pleading across the impossible chasm of the room before somebody’d scruffed him and carried him away, limp and lanky as a broken doll. Graves had only glimpsed him once more after that, as he was dragged bodily into the back of the van: a sliver of pale elfin face pressed up to the window of a police cruiser, eyes enormous, soul-stealing--and the anguished wail that had reached the detective through the tempered glass was the sound of a thousand broken promises. 

Graves starts the car, knowing he should go straight home, pull himself together and begin the impossible task of forgetting this entire humiliating episode. Forgetting Credence. Instead, it's only a few minutes before he's parked in the mellowing twilight, straight across the street from the omega halfway house he's sure they've brought him to. He knows he can't go in, can't even try. They'll be ready on Piquery's orders to expect it and really, he's pushing it by even being here at all. It's just that he can't bear the thought of being all the way across town, knowing the street alone is already a universe of distance between himself and the sweet, aching need with his name on it suffering twenty yards away behind brick walls. 

The sound of his zipper is loud in the close confines of the car, his panting breath easily ready to rival it. Shivering, Graves stares across the darkening street at the windows of the halfway house, imagining that Credence can feel him out here: feel the press of his lust, his hunger, his singular will against the pale skin he longs to lovingly bruise. He shudders out a moan, gripping himself with long, slow overhand strokes in the seat of his car like some pervert perp--the kind he used to bust on nights just like this back on the beat. He doesn't even care, too gone, too far deep into what he knows is going to be a lifelong obsession. “ _Ahh, fuck_ ,” he's groaning softly, the breath punching its way out of him in hard little bursts just thinking of the omega's proximity. “ _Oh Jesus, baby... god, ifuckingneedyou_.”  
It will never be enough: just chasing pale sensation to sate an urge that owns him now, but he's trying. He tries harder, sliding easily back twelve hours into his memory, ready to recapture every image he has of Credence and hold it in a grip even tighter than the one on his aching cock. 

The first thing he remembers--lingers over cruelly--is the scent. Holding a place of prominence as the agent of his undoing, it was the crucial component that had dulled his reflexes just long enough to be taken in the first place. At its earliest appearance, discerned only faintly, Graves had known immediately that it was a first heat. That realization alone had had him instantly hard.  
When he'd seen its bearer (trotted out before him blindfolded and whimpering by a pair of Grindelwald's hired muscle), all aspirations of escape had left him, evaporating with the certainty that the only place he ever needed to be again was in the presence of this nameless omega.  
Bound hand and foot across from him, blindfold lifted, the boy had trembled and wept hard enough to shake apart entirely. Wild-eyed, he'd stuttered out plaintive apologies, face flushed and perspiring. “I'm sorry, I'm s-s so sorry, I didn't know….” 

Alone in the car, Graves moans aloud to think again of the way Credence had stilled at the first touch of his voice--feline eyes tear-filled and suddenly transfixed on the man, the alpha, bound across from him.  
Gently shushing, Graves had talked him down from the heights of his panic, knowing the only way through the terror was to keep the boy holding onto what was essential: the shared primal urge already working to link them. Without a gun, any real sort of plan, or even the use of his hands, all Graves had had to offer was the single-minded desire and focus of an alpha. “Look at my eyes,” he'd said, watching with rapt adoration as the boy's hips had begun to slowly revolve at the sound, undulating little thrusts against the frictional press of his faded jeans. “You’re not lost. You’re right here with me. This is your first heat, isn't it?”  
Graves had kept his voice low and soft, feeling himself beginning to grind in a futile echo of the omega's seeking rhythm. “Yessssss,” was Credence’s answer, already visibly swooning. An appreciative rumble had sounded from the detective's chest, a vibration more felt than heard. 

All he'd wanted, all his instincts had told him was to use his voice, his eyes, his scent, the very weight of his presence--anything at his disposal to aid the young omega through their shared ordeal. And he had, locking onto the boy's dark, fevered gaze as he fucked into him with words alone.  
“Breathe in deep for me, that's it….can you feel me? Can you taste my scent? I'm right here. I've got you, just look at me and feel my voice... god, kid... you're gonna make me knot, you're so fuckin' good…” 

There was a moment--a terrible, perfect moment of raw power and truth where Graves had been almost certain that he could die from sheer animalistic need. Watching Credence: knees spread wide on the dirty warehouse floor, denim stretched taut over the shape of his straining erection, his head thrown back, long, slender throat gulping hard in frantic abandon. “Oh _godddd_!” The omega had whined out, desperate and ecstatic all at once. “Fuck. Oh _fuck_ , Detective Graves, you smell so good… I need you inside me, I _can't_... pleasepleasefuckme _please_...” His words had been lost soon after that--verbal access completely wiped as his speech unravelled into nothing more than the “ _hunh, hunh, hhhuh_ ” of little hiccuping moans. Straining against his bonds, the sight of the slow, dark stain blooming over the front of the boy’s jeans like a silent revelation had reduced Graves to sobbing. 

Graves cums vicious and loud, chest heaving, punching hard at the ceiling of his car in anguished frustration. The scabs on his knuckles have opened again, blood oozing out to mingle with his wasted seed and he pushes the whole mess through his hair, swiping irritably at the few grudging tears that have escaped him along the way. Fuck it.  
He starts the engine, turning the car around for the painful crawl home, telling himself that the boy is young, and forgetting is so much easier when you're that age, anyway.

~~~

It's nearly six weeks now into what Graves is beginning to think of as his post-Grindelwald (post-Credence) life, days spent grappling with himself to the point of nausea, nights lost to the embrace of his own slick fist, growling into the empty air of a life grown even emptier. There had been countless moments he'd nearly caved, nearly given in despite all better judgement, and Graves couldn't honestly say how many times he'd driven by the halfway house since that first visit. But he needed to prove that he could keep it together--was still the iron-willed star detective of his precinct--even if he knew down deep that it was all a sham. Strangely enough, it was an act of Piquery's rekindling trust that had finally decided him in the end on staying away. 

She’d taken him aside about a week and a half after his return to regular duty, explaining that it only seemed fair he be debriefed on the final details of the case he'd been so intimately involved in. Most of it he already knew: Grindelwald's imprisonment and pending extradition, the slow, inexorable shake-down of all his known contacts that was still painstakingly underway. And then came the cautious, appraising glance she'd speared him with as she slid the final document across the desk towards him beneath an elegant, well-kept hand. “This,” she'd said, holding her palm pressed flat against the manila folder as though testing his hidden urge to snatch, “is the file on Grindelwald's _other_ hostage.” Rising from her desk, she'd quirked one sculpted brow as she paused at the door, closing the venetian blinds on her way. “I'll leave this with you for a few minutes.” The door clicked shut, and Graves had reached out for the file with trembling fingers. 

Tracing over the few grainy photos with a tremor growing worse with every tick of the clock, he'd read the long-coveted details of the omega's sad, lonely life. Eighteen years old--the adopted son of a local crackpot church leader--when Graves had met him the boy had only been away from home for a couple of days at best. Thrown out with nothing but the shirt on his back and the scars beneath it at the first signs of presenting. A sibilant gasp had hissed through Grave’s teeth at the pertinent pictures enclosed, the brutal cross hatching of scars both faded and fresh that stretched like a silvery map of untold transgressions over shoulder blades and too-thin ribs. The boy was a butcher's block. Starved and punished into presenting late, and unlucky enough to have wandered into Grindelwald's path at his first chance of escape. Unlucky enough to share his first heat bound and terrified in a filthy Hudson shipping yard with a disgraced detective twenty years too old and tired for him. A tangled mess of shame and regret and bittersweet longing had uncoiled in Graves then as he stared down at the flimsy pages, choking at his throat and bringing sudden tears to prick at the back of his eyes. Credence deserved better. Better than him, better than Grindelwald, better than that Barebone bitch whom Graves was already vowing to hate until his dying day. All he could hope for in that moment, under any conditions, was that Credence had already forgotten him, was already fast on his way to a life of his own choosing. 

Twenty minutes into a traumatically dull stack of paperwork in the middle of this lifeless Wednesday afternoon, Grave's desk phone rings. Reaching for the receiver, he stifles a yawn against the back of his fist, glad for any distraction from his work and his spiralling thoughts. “Detective Graves,” he answers absently after a brief scrutiny of the ink stain marking the edge of his palm. 

Even in another life, Graves would recognize the shaky inhalation at the other end of the line. Instantly, he's rigid: heart pounding, half risen from his chair, paperwork forgotten. Another long, drawn-out breath, the faint sound of a throat clicking.  
“Detective?” Credence's voice is soft, with a note of pleading woven in deep. A sound of every angel that ever fell from heaven delivered straight to Grave's ear, straight to his throbbing groin. A sound of _heat_. His own voice ragged, Graves grits out the words that frame the only question he ever needs to know: “Where are you?” Another long pause, this one filled with a breath beginning to shudder at the confirmation of his voice. “I’m… oh my god, idon’tknowwhati’mdoing… I'm in your apartment.” Graves white-knuckles the phone as though he could grab, paw, _break_ the boy straight through it.  
“I broke in, I’ve… I’ve been trying to find you, don't be angry, please. Please, I just…. you helped me before and I don't want anyone else to help me.” Credence's voice trembles and cracks on this last and Graves is done. “I’m coming,” he says, barely remembering to speak the words aloud before he's hanging up the call.

Somehow (he only hazily recollects the transition), he's already in his car, pushing the speed limit, cursing at the mid-day traffic and steering one-handed as he palms his leaking hard-on through his jeans. He doesn't even care if it's a trap: Grindelwald himself could be waiting there to shoot him dead at the threshold of his door and it would be worth it just having heard Credence's voice on the phone. He plays that voice over and over in his mind on the drive that's already taking a lifetime too long. “ _I've been trying to find you. I don't want anyone else to help me_.” Christ. Just that knowledge alone is better than anything he's been brave enough to wish.

As soon as he's through the front door Graves hears a long, low moan echo down to him from the upstairs loft to herald his arrival and the sound grabs at the root of his cock and _pulls_. Dragging both shirt and jacket up over his head, he takes the stairs two at a time to find Credence already naked and writhing on damp sheets--a pair of Grave's faded y-fronts stolen from the laundry and clamped in his teeth, nearly hyperventilating over the agonizing scent. “I didn't touch,” he's moaning through the fabric, close to tears. “I waited for you.”  
“Good boy, that's my good boy,” Graves is murmuring, transfixed, eyes growing wide as Credence cums sudden and hard right before him at the click-click sound of his belt buckle being undone in the afternoon stillness. His knees nearly give out at the sight, and suddenly he's crawling, prowling low across the floor towards the omega who's openly keening now: the high, reedy noise filling the room to accompany the fresh flood of heat-scent at his approach. The boy yelps almost fearfully as Graves grabs one slim ankle and tugs--the first real touch to ever pass between them--an act of unequivocal claiming. Leaning forward, Graves nuzzles and grinds his head against the warm semen spread across the omega's trembling stomach, roughly marking his own hair in tangled wet streaks. He wants to glut himself on Credence's scent, bathe and drown in it, let it be the siren call that pulls him under and steals the last blissful breath from his collapsing lungs. With nothing but that thought in mind, he's lifting long pale legs up above his head at the edge of the bed, pushing back on tender teenage thighs. Slick is pouring out of the omega in slow pulses right in front of his eyes and he groans open-mouthed, panting hot breaths over the hungry hole softly clenching and unclenching rhythmically like some sightless creature of the deep. Credence nearly screams at the first long, broad swipe of Grave's questing tongue, the ululating sound of a wounded animal. It's the single most beautiful thing he's ever heard. He growls low and deep, watching another gush of slick ebb out in response. And just like that, Graves is nearly breaking apart already.

“ _Ohhhh_ , you taste _so_ good, baby, so fucking sweet for me.” His voice is cracking over the words, all gravel and bass-line rumble. Credence is crying openly now in pure catharsis, gripping the sheets and moaning as Graves dips his fingers into his weeping hole, scooping sweet slick into his mouth as though it were honey straight from the comb. The omega lets out a long, shuddering sob and Graves pushes two of his fingers back inside, curling up to press against the place he knows will have the boy seeing stars. His own dick twitches in a sympathetic throb at the way the slippery opening closes on his digits and _sucks_.  
“Detective, please, _oh fuck_ , please…”  
Graves doesn't even need to know what he's asking for, certain he already knows how to give it as he shimmies awkwardly out of his jeans in rough little impatient jerks, face barely leaving its place from between the boy's spread legs. 

His jeans and underwear thump with finality to the floor and Graves climbs up overtop of the wide-eyed omega as though having just shed all pretence at humanity itself. Crowding him in and bracing him in the strength of his arms, he's burying his face against the swelling scent gland just beneath his ear with a groan. He licks and nips at the spot, growling and humming in satisfaction at the frail whimpers he receives in return. The reality of it, the absolute fucking inevitable _rightness_ of this boy quivering in his arms-- _his_ arms and no one else's--suddenly spears him through. Enough to make him light-headed with it, murmuring, “You came home, baby. You came _home_.” He pulls back to gaze in naked wonder at the omega's upturned face, cradling it between large, callused palms and savouring every detail. The sweat-soaked curls clinging dark and glistening as seaweed against the sculpted cheekbones, eyelashes tear-damp and fluttering in his breathlessness. Graves knows he could find the secret truth of life's every mystery in the slope of that nose, the beckoning curve of that panting mouth. He feels Credence's hands sliding furtively over his bare chest, his arms, smoothing over the planes of his broad shoulders as though reassuring himself of the alpha's solid presence, his undeniable realness. Graves stoops his head to lick and bite at the full, swollen lips in affirmation, dipping his tongue in to taste the boy's hungry moans. “I'm here, baby,” he whispers between kisses. “Just feel me, I've got you.” Foreheads pressed together, eyes locked, he reaches back to lift the omega's legs high around his waist. Credence breaks the gaze just long enough to take in the sight of Grave's hard length as it slides back and forth along his cleft, catching once or twice at the rim. He feels the boy's opening clench and flutter hungrily each time the head of his cock skims past, as though trying to grasp and drag him in. The omega stares nearly hypnotized with anticipation, whispering almost just to himself: “ _yes, oh please, oh fuck_.”  
When Graves takes himself in hand--sinking the tip and slowly feeding in his girth--the pleasure sears straight through his core, each long night of fruitless pining behind him receding even further with every intrepid inch. He wants Credence to _know_ , wants him to feel the proof of the weeks of sleepless yearning as he fucks it into him and so he pulls back nearly all the way, pushing forward again into the blissful stretch and feel of Credence unravelling spectacularly around him.  
That easily, he's gone: transcending to something holy in the tight, wet heat of his omega, marveling at the ways his boy has blossomed into the absolute wanton gift stretched out beneath him. A frantic stream-of-consciousness of unimagined filth is pouring through those red-bitten lips--a litany of ecstasy: “ _ohgodpleasefuck!_ … I _dreamed_ you, Detective..." The boy is sobbing, hips jerking to meet each brutal thrust, " _fuuuck_...every night... I fucked myself open for you....you _own_ me, you own me... just. Fuckin.' _Breed_. Me....”  


His knot already catching, Graves hears himself grunt-moaning in stunned surprise at the words that reach in and nearly tear the orgasm out of him with the bloodied claws of a lust so deep and ancient it knows no name. He cums hard and long, howling out at each exquisite throb, and Credence is right there to meet him, the grip and pulse of his body an absolute _demand_ against his engorged knot as he pumps deep into the trembling boy. Clinging and rocking together, locked in, he pulls the omega up into his arms, cradling him against his panting chest and noses gently at the junction of his neck: a silent question. Credence nods weakly, and Graves kisses the corner of his mouth then, feeling it twitch up into a tiny smile before he stoops his head back down and bites, knowing with a bone-deep certainty that he'll readily die before anyone separates him from his mate again.

Graves laps softly at the bleeding wound, relishing its taste as each languid aftershock passes through their still lightly-thrusting conjoined bodies. The need for sleep is already creeping into each twitching muscle, but before it comes he thinks to himself that he really ought to shake Grindelwald's hand, just once, before the transfer goes through.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't quite shake these two, and just had to revisit them and see how they've been getting on. Turns out they've been getting on real well.

This is easily Detective Grave's favourite part of the day. Out of anything, any of the unforeseen changes to his once-solitary life--the smell of dinner waiting at the end of a long day, the little row of succulents along the windowsill that Credence tends to with nearly as much care as he does Graves--this is it, hands down. The thing he lives for. Buried deep in his boy, every complication of the world set aside in favour of the simplest thing nature ever intended. Just loving.

About damn time, too. Ever since their first meeting, Credence's heats have been sporadic, unpredictable things. Disappearing for weeks on end only to come on hard: sudden and wild as a summer storm. Graves does his best to reassure the boy-- _“I'm a cop, baby, I_ like _anticipation”_ \--tries to keep the omega’s mind from dwelling on the unfortunate past that likely caused the inconsistency in his cycle. And he loves these little surprises: the way a ripening note in his lover's scent, or an unexpected midnight moan as he shifts, deep in dream, can have the power to set Graves alight. As though he were only half alive in the meantime, simply dormant and waiting to answer a need he was designed to meet. That's how it was the first time he smelled the boy, first clapped eyes on him--exactly that. He knew then that his whole life had been nothing but waiting, and _here_ , finally, was the reason he'd kept on breathing.

Almost six months of pleasant surprises, and this afternoon was shaping up to be one of the best of them all. Around one o’clock his phone had rung, and in an echo of their first fateful mating, Credence had been there at the end of the line, breathing hard and sending liquid heat down the base of Grave’s spine. “It’s time,” he'd panted, his voice bordering on anxious in his urgency. “I'm leaving class right now.”

When Graves had pulled up to the curb, Credence had nearly hauled the door off its hinges in his eagerness, chucking his bag onto the backseat without a glance, eyes fever-bright and black curls clinging damp against his sweating brow. They'd barely cleared the block before the omega's trembling hands were busy at Grave’s groin, tugging his belt buckle in between greedy caresses, each hungry grope drawing a hiss through gritted teeth. _“Baby, we're right in the middle of traffic here.”_ Marvelling, Graves had filed away the sight of that bitten lip, the frown of concentration setting features in childish stubbornness. _”I_ know, _but I just want to_ see…”

Now the day has found Graves here: pants around his ankles in the passenger seat, parked in some hidden ass-crack of an alley with his arms full of grinding, whining, torrential _heat_. The car's become a capsule of pure, hormone-stinking sin: a rocking vacuum full of nothing but slick, wet noises and the perfume of untempered lust. Graves has got one fist twisted up in the hair at the base of Credence's skull, the other palm pressed flat over his sweat-sliding tailbone--just devouring that ripe, groaning mouth as he push-pulls the boy down onto his driving cock. He wants-- _needs_ \--to fuck Credence so hard he's almost angry with it; let fate send some asshole challenger just so he can fight them off and victory-knot his boy in front of the entire world. Credence is gripping white-knuckled on the headrest of Grave's shuddering seat, moaning nonsense into the steaming closeness of the car as he rides his alpha within an inch of both their lives. _God, he's glorious_ , Graves thinks, a Pre-Raphaelite prince turned whore just for him. “Yeah, get it, baby,” he's urging out between ragged breaths, “get that fuckin’ dick, that's yours.”

The omega's eyes have honest-to-god rolled back in his head as he crests what's got to be his third orgasm in as many minutes and christ, it's _never_ been like this, never been so desperate, not since that first time. _“Yesyesyes,”_ the boy’s words are mostly sobs, full of the tears Graves knows are coming on the heels of his release. “Oh _fuck,_ daddy, giveittome, I want it….”  
Graves can't deny his angel a goddamn thing, this least of all: he's lifting them both off the seat with the force of it as he cums, arching and grinding his knot in deep as it can go, chest heaving. The growl that escapes him is the rumble of the earth itself, tectonic plates shifting, rearranging themselves around the limp, sighing creature currently wilting in his lap.

Of course it's only fair the outside world should come knocking barely a minute after he's emptied himself out. Graves is humming against Credence's hair in post-coital satisfaction, savouring the slow glide of his own spend dripping down his inner thigh when the sound of what he instantly recognizes as a police baton raps against the glass next to his head. A thoroughly fucked-out Credence barely lifts his head at the sound, but Graves is already smiling ruefully as he rolls the window down an inch or two. The autumn air outside swiftly trickles in, a sudden exchange that both cools their sweat and surrounds the unfamiliar greenhorn in a pale cloud of steaming heat-scent, mellowed only by the light note of Credence's strawberry shampoo. Before anyone gets a first word in, Graves is handing out his Detective's badge, fat beads of condensation rolling down the windshield like rain below his extended wrist. “Omega-related emergency, officer,” he drawls out, feeling Credence huff a tiny laugh against his shoulder. “Couldn't be helped.” And lord above, after a pause the young beat cop actually grins, handing Grave's badge back to him with an amused little shake of his head. “Understood, detective. I've got one of my own at home, with a couple of twins due any day.”

Graves can't help himself--he tosses his head back and laughs, trying to imagine what it would have been like to find Credence when he wore a similar uniform, regardless of the fact his mate was barely born at the time. He smooths a soothing hand over the ridges of the boy’s spine, relishing the rise and fall of his breathing beneath the thin cotton of his Black Flag t-shirt. The waiting was worth it.  
“You're gonna want to keep up the good work, then,” he answers back, reaching to roll the window up again. “Twins on a beat salary? That's gotta be tough.” He hears the other alpha chuckle softly as he turns away and then the window’s shut, outside world be damned. The only sounds are the soft, satisfied cadence of their mingled breath, the distant traffic moving past in a city that doesn't concern them just now.

Credence shifts minutely, face nuzzling into the crook of Grave's neck. “Can we get pancakes after this?” he mumbles directly against his slowing pulse, breath ghosting along overheated skin. Oh yeah, his boy is always worth the wait. Graves smiles a secret smile, catching his own eye in the tilted rearview. “Of course we can, baby.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you'd like to visit:  
> [roy-batty-boy.tumblr.com](https://roy-batty-boy.tumblr.com/)


End file.
